To Save Us
by Eight Eleven
Summary: Set in New Moon's winter.  Bella makes a discovery that sends her on a search across the country to confront Edward about why he left.
1. Chapter 1: Coming To

To Save Us

Synopsis:

Takes place During New Moon's winter. Convinced Edward was lying, Bella sets out across the country to find the Cullens and confront Edward to gain the closure she needs.

I know that I was gone for a very long time.

To elaborate what happened before I came back is difficult. The first span was so long that I'm not entirely sure of the length of it. Charlie doesn't talk about that time-not any more at least-and it's not a thought I particularly relish. No one reminisces about post-breakup catatonia. It must have been a month or so, a month during which I can't piece together a lucid moment between the nightmares, fits of weeping, and listless hours-on the couch at home, in the shower, in the cafeteria, behind the wheel of my car. But time doesn't stop when you do, and one can only take so much toll before something drastic has to happen, and eventually that piece of me that wept and grieved, snapped and shattered.

That endless shallow pool of misery dried and left me cracked like the desert floor. Dry and damaged beyond repair. I could function on the surface. Work at Newton's. Go grocery shopping. Cook dinner without posing a fire hazard. I know it didn't fool Charlie, but he must have been relieved to see me moving. Talking (if only topically). As the season changed, I fell into a pattern, and this became normal for us. Don't talk about being abandoned. Don't talk about how it hurt. Breathe, move, function. I lived in pieces-bursts of action, moving like a marionette-and I didn't remember the in-betweens, and everything was disjointed and empty, and the world raced past without me.

And then I came back.

"How are the roads?"

Charlie was leaning against the door jamb at the entrance to the kitchen, still in his uniform, slurping a coke, when I opened the front door. I shrugged as I kicked the door closed behind me with a foot. "Not bad," I said. "For Christmas Eve, I mean." I set my bags on the staircase and went to take off my jacket. "I didn't have much to buy, though."

Charlie nodded, pursing his mustached mouth to the side. "I've got to go in for a couple of hours tonight. Finish up some paperwork so I can have the next two days off. You gonna be okay here?"

I wasn't looking at him, and I don't think he was looking at me, but I nodded. "Cool, yeah. It'll give me time to wrap your present." I never minded being alone. It was infinitely easier than trying to make with the happy. I got by alright now, but Christmas Eve-cookies and singing and, you know, togetherness-that was too much pressure.

"You still wanna go to the reservation tomorrow?" he called, moving into the kitchen.

"Sure," I lied. Christmas shopping had worn me out more than I expected. Four hours and ten stores, and all I'd ended up with for Charlie was a hoodie with a beer bottle pocket sewn onto the front. Charlie'd probably think it was a gag gift. I thought it was appropriate enough since we spent so much time on the couch watching TV. Besides, what kind of gift says 'Sorry I'm insane now and put you through the parental wringer every day.'?

I stood, waiting. In the kitchen, there was silence, and then I heard him sigh. He tossed his drink can into the bin underneath the sink and stood for a moment, hands resting against his hips as he bounced gently for a moment, surveying the kitchen walls. He sighed again. Great.

"Well, I'm out. Be back around ten. Pizza's in the fridge." I followed behind him to the door, where he turned around and glanced up at me, and he faltered for a second.

The little that was left of my heart ached.

We were back in the daily routine, but I knew that we were so broken. More than we'd ever been before.

"Merry Christmas, Kiddo," he said with that gruff voice. He meant to rustle my hair, I think, but instead his hand made a quick stroke down from the top of my head to its back. The movement was somehow grievingly affectionate. He dropped his gaze and patted my shoulder once before he was out the door.

Charlie had always been alone at Christmas. This year wasn't going to feel much different, I guessed-just harder. I was making everything harder.

I huffed and slouched against the wall next to the door. In my head, as always, the words swimming in my head. Words that assumed the pain would lessen, or I'd forget or something. Stupid, ignorant words. It will be as if I'd never existed.

I closed my eyes and tapped the back of my skull against the wall. Too hard. "Edward, you lied."

Liar. What a liar. He took the air from my lungs and told me I wouldn't miss it. Fucking liar.

Upstairs, spread out across most of my bedroom floor, I worked slowly and carefully on wrapping gifts. When I was alone, I did things slowly. I concentrated on precision. I found it was easier to set aside other thoughts if I pretended wrapping trinkets in thinly-pressed, glossy rectangular sheets of dead tree was the most important thing in the world to me.

I was nearly done wrapping Renee's gift (a picture frame) when the phone rang. "Swan residence."

"Happy Holidays, Stranger!" The caller's voice was cheerful and familiar, and it took me a few seconds to recognize.

"Jacob. Hey. Happy holidays," I smiled.

"Enjoying the break from school?"

"Oh, yeah. School. Breaks are always nice." I'd just placed a piece of tape lop-sided on the seam of the package. I pulled the tape back off gingerly but the top of the paper tore, leaving a spot of bare paper pulp. I sighed and unwrapped the package.

"Yeah, maybe there. Dad's using me as his work mule. Running errands, cleaning up for tomorrow. You're coming, right?"

"Yeah, totally." Carefully trimmed new sheet of paper. Six strips of magic tape, one inch in length exactly. Beer bottle hoodie boxed and centered on giftwrap.

"Cool." Jacob sounded relieved. "I'm smoking the turkey. Don't worry, it's not my first time. But you eat turkey, right?"

"Hmm? Oh, yeah. Turkey's great." Last piece of tape applied. I didn't see where I'd put the spool of ribbon, and craned my neck around the gifts and scraps of discarded wrapping paper.

"Cool. So ... I'll see you there. Well, I mean here. One o'clock. Right?"

On my knees I scooted around the floor hastily until my knee caught on something sharp and I stumbled forward, catching myself with one palm. "Oof-darn it ..."

"You okay?" Jacob asked.

"What?" The knee of my pants was torn. Fantastic.

"I was telling you, lunch is at one. Best turkey ever, courtesy of yours truly. We'll catch up and generally try to stay as far as possible from our dads ..."

"Definitely. One sharp. Wouldn't miss it."

"Okay, yeah. Well, Merry Christmas, Bella!" I tossed the phone to the bed after wishing him the same, shoving things around on my floor, looking for the offending obstacle. I pushed away a wad of paper to find a piece of floorboard, a slat about six inches wide, that wasn't flush with the rest of the floor. When I scooted towards it, the slat shifted a little. It seemed completely loose. I picked up the edge of the board, lifted it slightly, and dropped it back down with a thud. I picked it up again, more this time, shifting away from it, and, almost missed the glint of shine beneath. How had wrapping paper gotten under there? I removed the board completely, careful not to stick myself with the nails underneath, and peered into the small cove in my floor.

A stack of wrinkled papers. A CD. Some brightly-wrapped gifts.

And, facing me but looking away, his face, beautiful, more agonizing than it was in my mind every second of the day.

Pictures he'd stolen when he stole away. Wait. Pictures he hadn't stolen. Things he hadn't taken. All of it, he'd left with me.

For a moment, there was nothing-no breath or movement-and I think that the world finally, finally paused with me. Then I reached into the hole and held his picture, took in his face, his posture, and the way his hand curved around my waist possessively. I was his. He wanted me. He had wanted me.

It wasn't so much like waking up for me-more like a tape being thrown into fast-forward. I felt as if I was catching up with everything, my soul rising from where it had been left in the forest and charging through the trees, towards my house, up the stairs, and slamming through the back of me, and then-

There it was. Me. I wasn't gone any longer. My seams were pulling back together. For the first time in months, I felt it.

"Edward," I breathed. "You lied."


	2. Chapter 2: Apologetics

It hurt. It hurt the way it always hurts when someone flicks on the lights in a windowless room and you're briefly blinded by possibility. There was this sharpened grief, the deep, clean cut of their absence; and there was a comfort, because I thought I'd never see those faces again. There was something, and that was something.

Kneeling in front of this, my body began to hum, to vibrate and shudder with something silent, laughter or sorrow, and I was unable to tell which. I shook so much my vision skewed. I lost feeling in my hands. My breath hitched and I threw my palms down-I felt a jolt when they slammed against the floor-to try to ground myself. My life with Edward was here, piled in front of me in gifts, pictures, baubles. My thoughts weaved themselves together in swiftly spiraling hypotrochoids. He didn't take these away from me. My lullaby. There's us at the lunch table. He didn't take these way from me. How could I miss this for months? He left these. My lullaby. Why did he leave these? The pictures. Why would he leave these?

I dragged in a slow breath. Carefully, I began pulling the treasures from the hollow in my floor, examining each carefully. My lullaby CD. The pictures that had disappeared when he did. The envelope which contained my plane ticket voucher from Esme and Carlisle. Beneath the tickets were two gifts. One was petite and square, wrapped in deep red velvet with a green satin bow; beneath that was a larger gift, not quite the size of a shoebox, wrapped in crisp silver paper and topped with a white velveteen bow. I had to extract it carefully as it almost didn't fit through the gap in the floor. The last item, which had been tucked beneath everything else, was a black drawstring satchel, made of suede, which felt as if it held books.

My palms itched, and my fingers twitched. I didn't know what to touch, what to open.

The pictures? In my mind, I saw myself dampening the pictures and pressing them against my bare skin like temporary tattoos, and praying for them to absorb into me. Just to be close to him. But I assumed that it would not help, and also I was trying to not be bat-shit crazy (though truthfully I had crossed that bridge a while ago).

There was Alice's gift to me from my birthday-but I didn't think I wanted that to be first. There was the small red box, which had not ever been presented to me as Alice's had. Was it from Alice? Was it from him? It looked to be for Christmas-was it a Christmas gift, then?

The only other item was the black satchel. It was very plain, unnervingly unassuming.

Yeah, I had to open it.

Plucking it up, I turned it in my hands, smoothing my trembling fingers over it, and reached in. Heart pounding.

The first book was a hardcover book bound in lovely, deep green leather-the spine had embossed on it "The Picture of Dorian Gray, 1891".

I was familiar with the story. A man sells his soul for eternal youth and beauty. Beautiful, soulless-something Edward was not. I could never imagine him soulless-even envisioning the way he'd looked at me when he left.

The second book was the size of my open hand. It was covered in aged chocolate leather, bound tenderly with a thin cord, and had no words on the cover or spine, but for a marking in the bottom right-hand corner of the book. It had once been boldly embossed with the letters "EAM", but these letters were now barely visible, having faded and been worn of their foil.

A personal book of Edward's. From before he was a Cullen, immortal. Something I had never seen before. My heart stuttered and sped.

Was I supposed to read this?

If Edward had left these for me, then I could assume so.

But perhaps he hadn't been the one to leave me these prizes. What if someone else left them for me? Why would Edward leave these for me? He abandoned me.

Fuck it. He did abandon me. If this was all I had left of him, I was going to look at it. Who was going to stop me?

I unwound the cord slowly, careful not to stress it. The pages were yellowed around their edges, and carried the lovely, unmistakeable scent of books that are old, but unforgotten.

Trembling hands. Trembling heart.

The first page was blank.

And the second, and third.

But the fourth page had writing, faded substantially, in tightly-lined, nearly-perfectly slanted script with exaggerated capital letters. Edward's handwriting, though not quite as precise as I remembered it. I squinted at the page, flattening the open book against my palm.

"11.17.1917

Song

George Grosz

We contain all the passions

and all the vices

and all the suns and stars,

chasms and heights,

trees, animals, forests, streams.

This is what we are.

Our experience lies

in our veins,

in our nerves.

We stagger.

Burning

between grey blocks of houses.

On bridges of steel.

Light from a thousand tubes

flows around us,

and a thousand violet nights

etch sharp wrinkles

in our faces."

I still couldn't feel my hands. My fingers fumbled to the next page-also tightly packed with script. On each page, a date and a poem, or some prose. On each page, something that spoke to him. A record of his passion for literature, a subject on which he was infinitely more knowledgable than I. Things he thought were beautiful.

I sifted through the pages, watching the dates progress. There was a poem for September 8, 1918, and then there were no entries for seven months. The next entry was scripted in perfectly-penned Undead Edward. After that, the entries were sparse, sometimes months or even years apart. The ink gradually darkened, continuously switching betwixt blue and black.

I didn't stop to read the poems, bypassing decades, until I reached the last entry.

His handwriting was different for this entry. Slightly shaky. Imperfect.

"9.15.2005

Pablo Neruda

Lovely one,

just as on the cool stone

of the spring, the water

opens a wide flash of foam,

so is the smile of your face, lovely one ..."

My mouth moved with the words, without any sound coming out. Trembling heart. I read on.

" ... Lovely one, my lovely one,

your voice, your skin, your nails,

lovely one, my lovely one,

your being, your light, your shadow,

lovely one,

all that is mine, lovely one,

all that is mine, my dear, when you walk or rest,

when you sing or dream,

always,

when you are near or far,

always,

you are mine, my lovely one,

always."

I had, evidently, been blind. Really, really blind.

These were words that contradicted the things he'd said to me in the woods. Words that, frankly, made much more sense to me.

Edward abandoned me. But it wasn't because he didn't love me.

I slumped back against the side of the bed, scattered in the mess of memories. Across my floor, I was surrounded by him-pictures from his room, the cafeteria at school, at my birthday party with his arm draped over my shoulder-looking up at me. Loving me. Daring me.

My brain cemented the idea before I could recognize it coherently. There wasn't a question in my mind.

I didn't know who put these things here-but even if Edward hadn't, I had all the evidence I needed. Edward had loved me, so I had to find him, wherever he was, and talk it out. No matter what the outcome could be, I needed the truth for once in my life. I deserved it. I had to do something.

Charlie got home shortly before midnight. I don't think he expected to see me awake, and he couldn't have expected me to see me in the den with brownies and hot cocoa.

I would never have expected that-not anymore. But it was Christmas, and Edward loved me, and-

-and when no one else was there, Charlie was there.

He was there, clueless as to how to help me, but unwilling to do anything less than try. He was there when I couldn't-wouldn't-function, and when there was nothing in my heart left to give.

He stopped at the entrance to the den, his hand having only unzipped his jacket half-way. "Hey, Bells," he said, drawing the "Hey" out to a length that would have been almost comical, had it not been a stinging reminder that I was, you know, dead for the past three months. "Didn't expect to see you up. ... Everything okay?"

"Yeah," I said, nodding. Pause. "Yeah. Um, so I thought you might want some Christmas brownies?" I held the plate up, angling it towards him. "And I know it's late, but I put in 'A Charlie Brown Christmas'." That was what we used to watch at Christmas, years ago, when I got to spend Christmas with him.

Charlie eyed me, hand still on his zipper. I suddenly felt very small, and I tried to grin big to compensate. Make it real. Show him I wasn't lying about this.

"I made cocoa, too. Um ... for the brownies."

Then Charlie blinked-he looked briefly as if he'd been caught daydreaming. He made quick work of hanging up his coat. "Yeah, of course. What's Christmas without Charlie Brown, right?" He wiped his hands up and down the thighs of his pants, dusting off something nonexistent, and made for the couch as I started the movie.

We watched the movie together. With every moment my discomfort expanded. Charlie-Dad-and I were so awkward. Every single thing that I'd become since moving to Forks, running away, breaking down, shutting down, had driven another spike into the rickety frame of our relationship. He had been drowning in it, and I could empathize, because I was so like him, only not as strong ... and now that my light was turned on, now that I cared enough to see what I'd done to him, I hated my love for Edward a little for what it had done to Dad and me, and for what I'd done to Dad.

On the television, Schroeder sat hunched over his tiny piano.

You can do this, I told myself. You can take a step. He's your Dad. He's Dad.

I took the plate of brownies from the small coffee table in front of the couch and laid the plate on his lap. I stood in front of him for a moment, very still, as he looked up at me. Then, without looking at him, I plopped beside him on the couch and leaned in, tucking my legs underneath me, and laid my head on his shoulder, facing the TV. It was awkward, and it looked like I was hurling myself onto him. Not graceful or smooth. Clumsy. Pathetic. Just do it already.

No better time.

"Dad," I said. He didn't respond for a moment.

"Yeah, Sweetie."

"I never meant-"

Oh God, I was not going to cry. I shook out a sigh against his shoulder.

"-I've put you through-"

Just say it. Say it. Sayitsayitsayit.

"I love you, Dad. And I'm sorry. For all. ... All of it. I'm okay."

Pause.

For a moment, there was only Lucy and Schroeder and my heart and his. Before he said anything, I felt his hand, warm, rough, pulling my head into his shoulder, cradling me. Then his chin was on my crown. This was nearly new to me-I couldn't remember a closeness like this since I was very small-and it was so right.

A piece of me clicked into place.

"Merry Christmas, Bell."

"You too, Dad."

Snuggled next to my father on Christmas Eve, peace blanketed me and I faded in and out of wakefulness. At some point I was aware of a wetness that had rolled into my hair, and a shallow half-sniff.

I'd tell him tomorrow that soon I'd be leaving Forks again. But Christmas I was spending here, protected by my father, feeling small and vulnerable and hopeful for the first time in months.

Notes:

*The beer sweater from the last chapter is a real and wonderful thing, which you can purchase through Vat 19.

*I'm working through chapter 3, and should be done within the next week.

*If you feel so compelled, let me know what you thought of this chapter. Reviews make me feel pretty awesome. :-)

*Catch me on Twitter: 811inthestacks


	3. Chapter 3: An Overture, Neatly Wrapped

Wakefulness never came easy to me-my morning battles were akin to trying to backstroke from underneath a snow drift-but on Christmas morning my eyes opened easily to the black, the absolute still of the house seen only in the earliest hours of the morning while the sun still dawdled on the other side of the horizon.

I found myself coated in heavy quilts. Sometime in the night, Charlie had covered me up and moved himself to the recliner. He was asleep but not snoring, his legs beginning to pull up towards his torso, his jacket an ineffectual source of warmth atop him. I rubbed sleep from my eyes. The clock across the room read 4:31.

I pushed myself up carefully, stretching, and gathered one of the quilts to lay gently over my father. He began to stir as I draped it down over him, his chest rising in a rapid sigh, and when he settled back into sleep his snores started and I couldn't help smiling at the sound.

Christmas morning had ceased to hold the allure it once did when I was young. After my parents divorced, gift-giving wasn't the joyous occasion it had once been for me, even long after I'd reconciled their decision to be apart. Christmases, birthdays-any holiday which garnered gifts-became difficult for me. Charlie and Renee constantly seemed to want to compensate for breaking up the family unit with gifts, all of which made me feel progressively frustrated and shameful-even when their intentions were genuine. Every gift was I don't love your father, and You think your mothers gifts are better than mine, and I know you miss him this time of year, and I wish I could be there for your birthday, Kiddo, and everything else that they thought but didn't say. I didn't like gifts.

This was the first Christmas morning I'd been excited over in eight years, and it was entirely thanks to the two presents I'd discovered beneath my bedroom floor. They may have been gifts for me, but they were another connection to them, and I needed them.

With incredible care I crept around the corner and up the stairs, keeping close to the wall to minimize the groans of the wood beneath my feet, and made my way silently to my bedroom.

I hadn't tidied it completely-ribbon and scraps of wrapping paper still lay on the floor-and even now, with feeble moonlight easing through my curtains just enough to illuminate the room, that wayward floorboard glared at me. For the life of me I couldn't believe I had missed it.

Not that it mattered. I'd found it, and the space beneath that floorboard was empty now. I'd tucked my treasures away in a cardboard box beneath my nightstand and stacked some blankets over it. Underneath those blankets, two cleanly-wrapped gifts were awaiting me. I pulled the box onto my bed eagerly, unpacking it around me.

I had spent last night considering which gift to open first, and after a troubling amount of deliberation I decided to open Alice's gift. Sitting cross-legged on my bed, I pulled the silver box onto my lap and turned it in my hands, dusting my fingers over its edges. Alice appreciated good gift-wrapping like me, though I was jealous of her precision-as of late, I'd found my lack of it exasperating.

A nervous tickle worked at my throat. I didn't expect to feel such trepidation about opening it, because it was a vital tie to Alice. But maybe it was too much too soon.

I ran my fingernail underneath the tape on the back of the package, then worked at the sides with a determination to keep the paper whole. If somehow the gift inside upset me, maybe I'd just rewind-wrap the package back in its paper as if it were never opened, place it underneath the floorboards, and hammer the shit out of the floor so I never had to see it again. Claim ignorance until the day I die. ... Right.

I slid the top off the box and unfolded layers of shining tissue paper. And there it was.

"Oh my God."

A hot pink crocodile-skin long wallet.

A gaudy hot-hot-hot pink crocodile-skin long wallet with a gold zipper.

I dangled it in front of me between my left thumb and forefinger, and couldn't keep the laughter frothing up inside me from spilling out. Hit rewind, indeed. Thank heavens I didn't open it in front of Alice, because I wouldn't want to seem ungrateful ... but I could never, ever imagine carrying around my money in that pouch of zippered electric crocodile. The thing practically glowed in the dark.

I sure as hell didn't plan on using it. But I'd keep it.

Something caught my eye as I went to place the wallet back in its box. At the bottom and swaddled by tissue paper, the box held a small square sheet of pink paper folded in half. A note.

My heart stuttered.

I angled my body away from the window as I unfolded it, letting moonlight spill onto the paper from over my shoulder. In the center of the paper, in petite script with luscious feminine curves, Alice had written the following:

"1770 Iron Pine Boulevard.

The red one."

My breath left me. Very quickly.

My head swayed. Alice had left this in here-had she known Edward was going to leave? Was this a contact address for her or something? There was no Iron Pine Boulevard in Forks, I was certain. If she had known about this ... if she had known she was going to leave, couldn't she have said goodbye?

No. She had seemed happy at my birthday party, and genuinely so. Perhaps-perhaps this was a note that was applicable to a future that didn't involve me careening backwards towards glassware, a future that didn't exist. My heart clenched.

No, no, this was something. I didn't know what it was, but it was something-it was a start. This place was linked to her somehow at some point. Whatever Alice had seen, whatever her reason, I was going to follow her lead.

I stumbled to the desk in the corner of my room and threw myself into my chair, and began pressing the space bar on my computer impatiently to get the CPU to awaken. The tan beast was ancient and always took ages, especially wake from sleep, and now I found myself feeling unusually cross towards it. When I smacked the side of the monitor the screen blinked to life and I pounded the address out into Google's search bar. The first result was a match, a point plotted on a small square of map next to a bolded address.

Crazy Raymond's Auto Sales, 1770 Iron Pine Boulevard, Minneapolis, MN.. Used cars bought and sold**No Credit, No Problem**Buy Here, Pay Here**.

So, okay. Alice wanted me to go to a used car lot in Minneapolis. Or, at least she had wanted me to go at some point. She'd written "The red one", so evidently I was meant to buy a car there. A last-minute plane ticket to Minnesota would likely be expensive, but I head nearly $3000 in my bank account, which would be enough to get me there.

... Not enough to buy a car, though, I mused, sighing.

Then again, I guessed that Alice had seen me buying the car, so it'd have to work out, right?

I pressed my palms against my eyes. Maybe six a.m. was too early to be deciphering vampire clues ... and I did still have the small, red velvet box calling to me from my bed. I scribbled the address to Crazy Raymond's and went to put it in the gaudy wallet-

-and then I realized that there was no room for it, as a thick stack of papers already resided in the wallet.

Oh.

Heart thudding, I slowly pulled out a tightly-banded stack of bills. My eyes burned from the pull of being stretched open so wide.

"Oh my ... God."

I dragged my index finger along the tops of the bills, letting them fan out gently. All of them were crisp $100 bills. Thousands of dollars. Tucked underneath the paper band that held them together was another slip of pink paper; on this, Alice had written out:

"Just take it."

I made quick work of counting the bills without unwrapping them. I paused, did the math in my head. Double-checked my math. Double-checked the count.

Double-checked my double-checking.

Sat in my desk chair limply, staring at the ten thousand dollars I had in my right hand.

I heaved in a ragged breath, and its shudder alerted me that at some point I had stopped breathing.

Okay, Bella, I coached myself, closing my eyes, attempting to understand my progression from points A to B. Edward. Edward gone. Nothing. Floorboard. Gifts. Electric crocodile. Ten thousand dollars. Crazy Raymond's in Minnesota.

Somehow, it was still lacking sense, but I still felt my chest begin to tighten with excitement. This would be my starting place. I would fly to Minnesota, buy a red car from Crazy Raymond, and blindly expect that something would reveal itself along the way.

It was stupid. But it had to be more productive than sitting here.

I shoved the money back in the wallet-I couldn't fit the bills in nicely but managed to zipper it shut-and stuck the wallet in an old leather purse I had in the back of my closet. I imagined Alice cringing to see what was undoubtedly a pricey wallet in my Walmart purse. Then I smiled, because I was imagining Alice and it didn't actually hurt.

Sitting back on the bed I wanted to center myself, but I couldn't stop my body from humming. The telltale tickle in my throat had crawled across my chest as it did when I got overly stressed or worked up, and I didn't see sense in quieting the unease just to get worked up again opening the other present. The best way to open the gift was dive right in.

The ribbons slid off the velvet with only a slight pull from my hands, and cautiously I pulled back the deep red fabric to reveal a very simple, square wooden box. It was smooth but unstained and had worn, brassy hinges.

A great part of me wanted not to solve this mystery. Perhaps it was from Edward, or perhaps not-and perhaps it was something wonderful, or perhaps not. I wasn't sure that I could handle either extreme, though I knew I didn't have a choice, so I eased the lid back to look inside.

Nestled inside the box was a pillow of deep red silk, and resting on that silk was a thin band of silver. I picked the ring up to eye it carefully. The tickle clawed at my chest.

The band had intricately formed scrollwork on one side, and rising from this scrollwork was a tiny raised-relief hand, perfectly sculpted, curving along with the band as if to grasp it, but hovering just above the band without touching it-reminiscent to a claddagh, but with only one hand and without a heart to hold. The ring was exquisite, and very lonesome, and it felt like me. Reaching out to touch but never grasping. Off-balance.

There was no note with it, no sign that it was from Edward-but I couldn't imagine that it came from anyone else.

It felt right when I slid it on my left ring finger. Like a piece of home. It was a little too big, but I wasn't willing to take it off. I spun it around the base of my finger and brought my fingers up to press it to my heart-I could feel the tiny outline of the cold hand on my skin, and I held my breath to fight tears and staccato breaths.

It didn't work very long. I exhaled and leaned over to press myself into the mattress, my breaths deliberate, slow, and rattling. Keeping the ring pressed against me, I grabbed Edward's journal and clutched it to me, sobbing not for pain but for change, and for love that had not chapped or crumbled-that I suspected never would.

Early that morning, I dreamt of a peculiar place.

The room was large but not cavernous, and every side held bookcases extending from wall to wall-bookcases cramped with hardcovers whose spines had dulled with age, with shelves climbing to a ceiling high enough that I could not see where they ended-perhaps they were infinite. Every inch of exposed wood in the room was polished, dark cherry, and the floor was carpeted with a deep, soft indigo from which countless carefully-stacked columns of books rose like basalt columns from a sea.

In the center of the room was a low table with a top as broad as a bed, illuminated from each of its corners by large. creamy pillar candles with wax cascading over their edges. In the center of the table I was laid out for him, my body completely bare.

I was on my back, stretched out lithely. My arms were splayed on the table over my head, and I tipped my head back to carefully examine them. From my fingertips to wrists and down towards my shoulders, I was inked with knit spirals of indigo in the tight, precise swirls of Edward's script. I brought my right arm closer to my face to admire the words wrapped around me. Dates, and poems.

Stretching my arm back out onto the table, I brought my gaze forward, and my eyes locked on Edward.

He was over me, straddling my hips, his torso parallel to mine. He kept one hand baring on the desk's surface and the other gently guiding the nib of his pen across the plane of my chest, his features set in concentration as he wrote, his eyes soft.

I laid there for him, serenely pleased to be his journal. His movements were careful, gentle, and regarded me as something worth a great deal to him. He didn't appear react to my nakedness though, nor the gentle twists and sighs I couldn't suppress at the cool brush of his wrist and the wet of the ink. I wondered if to him I was by all appearances his open journal and not a woman he'd loved, naked and aching underneath him, completely vulnerable to his whims, and I wondered if that should offend me, but I was too enthralled with his bright pensive eyes and the twitch of his lips. I wanted to speak to him, but couldn't think of any apt words to say; so I laid under and watched him, watched his eyes move across my breasts as he painted poems on them, his teeth grazing his lower lip.

I watched Edward, and I watched the candles burn-

-and I was startled when, as the wicks were nearly spent and the flames were beginning to anguish, Edward set his pen on the desk and began to lower his face to my chest, his hands sliding up to embrace the sides of my ribcage. He was parallel to me and his mouth was suddenly inches from my left breast, his eyes over my heart. He trailed his fingers over the words there as he spoke, raising goosebumps into braille as he went along.

"They had buried me," he said. His voice was low, hoarse, slow. The ache in the pit of my abdomen spread and tightened.

"I heard them say I was dead.

But as the shiver of resurrection went through the earth

and the floods of eternity reached me

with their starless blue days

I woke up in the light of your eyes and called,

called your name soundlessly."

Edward's hands slid up my sides and over my shoulders. His hands were smearing the ink there. He squeezed my shoulders slightly, kept his eyes on my breast, and exhaled heavily, letting the cool air skid over me. I could feel it everywhere, feel him everywhere. His words were whispered and deliberate, but exultant. He was shaking, just barely.

"You kissed me, and I became your lips;

somewhat pale, turning a bloody dark in kiss-

and merrily curved, I became a high rose, your mouth in

the wind,"

Then his eyes turned up and met mine, and I could see into him, and there was surprise, and need.

Mine. His.

He licked his lips and continued. His hands-oh, his hands-slid behind my shoulders and underneath me, down towards my back, and I arched towards him in response. So close. I was too staggered to speak the pleas behind my parted lips. Every cell in my body begged.

"-to which this rose, shining from its purple depths,

bent down, weighted down, to open for a kiss."

His eyes slid closed and his sigh was shaking as cool, open lips wrapped around me.


	4. Chapter 4: Buoyancy

The design of my yearning for Edward was something I'd not gotten used to in this time, something I doubted was possible to get used to-like floating just off a shore with a rising tide. I was swimming in it, but still caught off-guard by fresh swells of need breaking around me, keeping his absence a sharp, salty sting, making me wonder for a fraction of a moment if I'd drown.

The dream broke around me.

I woke up panting, blushing. Surprised I wasn't screaming-though if I had been screaming, the cause would have at least been a welcome change.

I was still curled awkwardly on my bed, my hand tucked under my chest and having lost all its feeling. I lifted myself, peeling my cheek away from the leather cover of Edward's journal, my chest sore from the tiny silver hand forced against it all night. I rolled my shoulders in slow, long stretches, closing my eyes, trying keep my grip on vivid fragments of my dream, order them, draw them out over and over, ensure I couldn't forget. Forget the curve of his fingertips playing across my breasts. The cracks in his voice, like every word was his first in centuries.

The desperation in his eyes when they finally met mine.

The poem he confided to me before his mouth was absolutely lawless on my skin.

The poem.

There was little point in trying to calm myself. I grabbed the journal off the bed and scrubbed sleep from my eyes, and it didn't take me long to find the entry with the poem he written on me, dated March 13, 2005, Sunrise. An excerpt from Eulogies, by Rene Schikele. I'd never heard of him, never read the poem, a thought which troubled me, if only fleetingly.

And then I processed the date, knowing March 12 was our first kiss, and the first night he spent with me. He'd left to change clothes as I slept-and he must have written this then.

I visualized him penning the words on his page, the almost-smile at his mouth, just as he'd looked when he was writing it on me, all thoughtful brow and curling shoulders, perhaps perched on the couch in his bedroom. Writing for me.

I almost drowned again.

I spent too long in the shower that morning examining my arms, imagining the ink curling around my skin, two large, erratic smears of blue over the crest of my shoulders where he'd grasped me. I felt more beautiful than I had in a while.

Charlie didn't awaken until I'd already rolled and cut the biscuits, and thick slices of sausage were spitting at me from the pan. He shuffled into the kitchen with squinting eyes, hair mussed, fingers scrubbing at his cheeks. He looked rested.

"Merry Christmas, Bella."

"Merry Christmas, Dad," I smiled, and I reached into the fridge to grab some juice. "I made sausage and eggs. And the biscuits are in the oven. Do you want juice too or just coffee?"

"Juice. Thanks."

He thudded down into his chair at the table with a yawn as I set down his glass, almost spilling the juice from pouring it so fast. All my movements were fast, energetic, and a little too forceful. I couldn't help myself. It was a good day.

"I figured we need to leave here just after 12:30," I said as I pulled the biscuits from the oven and transferred them one-by-one onto a plate, my fingers jumping to avoid getting burned. "I'm just making a green bean casserole. Think that'll be okay?"

Charlie looked at me for a moment, dazed.

It was embarrassing. I deflated a little.

When I spoke again, I sounded more sedate. I leaned backwards against the counter, peering over to check the sausage before plating it. "I can always make something else, if you think that's not enough. I don't know," I shrugged.

"No," he said, shaking his head. "No, no, that sounds great. Casserole will be plenty." Then he smiled, close-lipped, cheeks ruddy and sipped his juice. Eyeing me. Aware of the happy, and perhaps suspicious of it.

After breakfast Dad and I ambled into the den to open our Christmas presents. We didn't have a tree up, so the gifts were piled up on the coffee table-some for us, and some for family and friends. Dad had put two boxes on the table for me, wrapped clumsily in the funnies, just the way I liked them.

He seemed to genuinely like his beer-holder hoodie-he kind of cackled when he first opened it-and said it would come in handy for weekend fishing trips. He thanked me and ruffled my hair with one hand, and I blushed heavily.

His first gift to me was an iPod, which I immediately told him was too much-but I also told him it was pretty much the coolest thing I'd ever seen, and it wasn't a lie. The second gift to me was a GPS unit.

"Thought maybe if you had one of these you could go on day trips. Aventures, or somethin'," he said with a shrug, and I wondered if the gift held an entirely different meaning to him now than it had when he'd purchased it. Perhaps it had been meant as a plea.

"Thanks, Dad. These are seriously great."

"The sales clerk said that you can put all sorts of stuff on the iPod. Movies, music, pictures. It has a calendar and address book, so it seems pretty useful."

"It's awesome. Really. Thanks."

Then there was a silence that seemed to stretch too long, a silence begging me to be the one to break it.

"So, I was thinking that maybe I'd go down to Florida for a while."

He lifted his head to study me, tilting his head. "Yeah?"

"Well, you know, the past few months ... I think it would be good for me. To get a change of scenery. Go on an adventure, like you said."

He scratched the back of his head. "What about school? You wanting to transfer?"

"School doesn't start for almost a month. That gives me plenty of time to go visit, and be back before school starts. I mean ..."

Of course, I didn't know if I'd be back in time for school. Not that it mattered. I knew I couldn't be completely honest with Charlie-at least not yet. But I wanted to make at least some of my intentions clear.

I shook my head as I said, " ... I'm not moving down there, you know? I'm coming back to Forks. This is where I live."

"I know your Mom would love you to live in Jacksonville," he said, and I knew that he was afraid.

"I've gotten really used to the rain," I told him. "I will come back. It's just ... I need to do this."

I don't know if he believed me, but Charlie nodded. "Well, we can start looking at plane tickets this evening."

I swallowed. Here we go. "Actually, I was thinking I'd rent a car and drive."

The change in his demeanor was instant-he let out a barking, derisive laugh. "Nope. No way. You're eighteen."

"I know, but I think I can handle it. I have enough money in my bank account to pay for a rental car and hotels."

"Do you realize that hotel and car rental rates are triple or quadruple the price for people under twenty-five?" He asked.

I hadn't realized that, actually. Not that it made a difference.

He crumpled some torn wrapping paper in his hand and headed for the kitchen, and I trailed behind. "Plus," he said, "The roads are going to be congested and dangerous until after the New Year. Statistically, this is a really dangerous time of year for car accidents. And what would happen if you got into some kind of trouble? Got hurt? Stranded? I don't know if you've noticed, but trouble seems to follow you around. This is a bad idea, Bella." He leaned back against the kitchen wall, arms crossed, eyes expectant.

I wanted to argue with him. I wanted to, but I didn't. There wasn't a way to convince him. Maybe if I'd have more time to build his trust. If I hadn't been so screwed up, if I hadn't freaked out and left him in the Spring. Maybe then he'd have been more inclined to let me go, but not this way.

As much as I didn't want to deceive him, there wasn't a way around it anyway.

"Okay, yeah. I guess you're right. We can look up plane tickets later. Come on, we've got to leave for La Push in an hour."

I had to go to Minneapolis, so I'd have to get a flight routed through there. I'd come up with a story for Dad when I got there. He'd be mad, but he'd also be half a country away, which had to be of some greater benefit. All was just a means to an end, and then I'd make good on my promise and come back to him.

The Quileute Reservation had a meeting hall for festivities-it was essentially an expansive, elongated log cabin, simple and lovely, and it's where we found ourselves on Christmas afternoon. We climbed the wide set of stairs to its entrance and waded into the bustle of talking and laughing. The interior of the meeting hall was warm, sweet, and worn, and the air was vibrating with happiness. Charlie skated over to Billy Black, thundering a holiday greeting. I stood just inside the door, casserole in hand, unmoving as people swished past me.

"Bella! Merry Christmas!" I felt Jake's hand loop around my forearm to pull me through the crowd at an awkward, diagonal angle, though I couldn't actually see his face-just the shine of his black hair as he weaved us through the throngs of people and towards the buffet table on the far end of the room. "I'm getting us outta the way," he called over his shoulder. "You parked yourself in kind of a high-traffic area, you know. Stand in front of the door like that and someone's gonna knock that casserole right outta your hands." I could hear the smile in his voice, and rolled my eyes as I said "Thanks."

"No problem, Swan." We reached the buffet table and he began maneuvering different items so he could slide my green bean casserole onto the table, right between three other green bean casseroles. "Looks tasty. Come on. Let's go sit at the kid's table. Get anything good?"

I took a seat across from him at a table in the most remote table in the room-which wasn't saying much, of course. "Yeah, um, I actually did. Dad got me an iPod and a GPS unit, which is pretty cool. What about you?"

"Nothing that cool. A lot of clothes, which I needed pretty bad. Growth spurt," he said, tapping his chest with his fist. "Oh, and new parts for the Rabbit, which I plan to put in just as soon as I can get away from this thing." His smile was gleaming.

"Sounds pretty sweet."

"Yeah, but not as sweet as an iPod. Can I see it?"

"Yeah, sure. So ... how's school?" I slid it across the table, resting my chin on my upturned palm, examining the pine garland strung up about the room as he toyed with the device.

"Pretty good, now that we're on vacation. We don't get as long a break as you do, but we get out earlier for the summer, so I guess it evens out, right? Oh, this thing is awesome. What about you? What have you been up to? You don't call, you don't write," he chuckled.

"Nothing, really." That statement could not have been any more accurate. "Working up at Newton's most days. Studying."

"Wow. Really living the life," he said, whistling. Then he surveyed me for a minute, a look I'd become familiar with, though somehow coming from Jake it wasn't so disconcerting. "You seem like you're doing okay."

I paused, mouth open, before answering. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm doing great. I'm, um, going to see my mom in a few days, which should be fun. Florida weather, you know?"

"Yeah, that must be crazy. I've never even been someplace outside of Washington state. Isn't Florida like a hundred degrees year-around?"

I laughed, shaking my head as I scanned the room. Most of the people in the hall I knew vaguely, if at all-for all the time I spent in La Push when I was younger, I wasn't exactly connected with the residents.

I recognized the man sweeping in through the door, though-too tall, broad shoulders, dark eyes, not dressed nearly warm enough for the weather. When Sam Uley entered the hall, the collective focus of the room swelled-people swarmed to him like moths to streetlights on snowy nights.

Passingly, I thought I could feel the absurd heat of his body, something left over from the night he carried me through the woods. A warmth that seals, envelopes. Protects. I decided that perhaps if I were someone else, if I didn't crave an impossible chill, I'd swarm to him too.

Sam was making quick work of greeting everyone in the room. When my father approached him with a fierce handshake and clap on the back, they spoke briefly before Charlie scanned the room, finding and pointing towards me with a wave. Sam met my gaze, eyes narrowed slightly, thoughtful as he nodded to me, and he kept speaking to Dad without turning away.

I felt exposed.

"Check out Mr. Popular over there with your Dad," Jake said, and I shook my head, trying to refocus myself. Jake had slid my iPod across the table to me, folding his arms over his chest.

"What do you think they're talking about?" I asked. I really didn't mean to say that aloud.

"Same old, same old," Jake snorted. "Sam takes it upon himself to be a one-man law enforcement agency on the Res. Well, used to be one man. Now he's got his posse running around acting like his own little police force, now that he and your dad are buddies."

"Buddies?"

"Yeah. They talk all the time about police business. You didn't know that?"

"No. I guess I missed that."

I must not have been hiding my surprise. Jake sighed, leaning forward and rapping his fist on the table in a way that gently but clearly alerted me to his intent to change the topic. "I'm going to get a root beer. Want one?"

I spent the afternoon at the far table with Jake and a sporadic rotation of his friends, eating four different kinds of green bean casserole, listening to him talk about his car, and trying not to care that Sam Uley sat next to my father for the entire meal, or that every time I looked towards him he was looking at me like he could see right through me. I couldn't shake it.

The sooner I went to find Edward, the better.

Let me know what you think-good or bad! I'd like to know. Also, for fic updates and general ramblings, find me on Twitter: 811inthestacks . Thanks!


	5. Chapter 5: Flight Plan

A little shout-out to the songs that helped me write this chapter (because I can't write them without musical assistance):

*Sea Legs by The Shins

*The Dress Looks Nice on You by Sufjan Stevens (for Bella's dream in this chapter)

*Twilight Omens by Franz Ferdinand

As always, I own nothing. Tragedy, I know.

Where we left off: Bella resolved to go find Edward, and opened the gifts she found underneath the floor: a wallet full of money from Alice, with a tip on where to use it, and a ring (though she's not positive it's from Edward). She spent Christmas day with Charlie that included a trip to La Push:

"I spent the afternoon at the far table with Jake and a sporadic rotation of his friends, eating four different kinds of green bean casserole, listening to him talk about his car, and trying not to care that Sam Uley sat next to my father for the entire meal, or that every time I looked towards him he was looking at me like he could see right through me. I couldn't shake it.

The sooner I went to find Edward, the better."

We practically waddled into the house after lunch at La Push, each of us juggling styrofoam plates of leftover food and gifts-Charlie was a very popular man. It was already dark when we arrived home-we'd spent far too long there, for me, at least. I decided about fifteen minutes into Sam Uley's time at the party that I would be genuinely happy to never see him again. As grateful as I was for him helping me in the woods-and I was really, truly grateful-he eyed me the whole time I was at the party, barely blinking, as if he was attempting to telepath me a message-an "I know your secret" message. Even though I had sense enough to remember that he likely didn't know anything, I was scared. The Quileute generally didn't like the Cullens, and some of them didn't like that I did like the Cullens. Beyond that, I wasn't sure about anything-what some of the Quileute knew or believed, what they thought of me now.

Charlie had meandered into the den to channel surf, and after I put the leftovers away, I hurried-tiredly-to my bedroom to log onto my computer. I needed to find a ticket to Jacksonville by way of Minneapolis-a series of flights I wouldn't complete.

I browsed a few different sites, grimacing as I looked over the prices, until I found a deal which appeared to be my perfect solution. If I left at midnight on the 27th, just over a day from now, I could take the red-eye from Seattle and get into Minneapolis just after five in the morning. The ticket included a flight from Minneapolis to Philadelphia, and finally to Jacksonville from there.

There was a two hour layover in-between the first two flights. There was enough time, and it was early enough in the morning, that it would be easy for me to fall asleep in the terminal and miss my flight. I couldn't help a grin from stretching across my face. This could absolutely work.

Without talking to Dad about it, I booked the ticket. I couldn't risk him arguing that it wasn't the right ticket and that we should keep looking. I itched to pack my bags and run to Edward-wherever he was. The thought overwhelmed me.

I tried to call Mom, but she didn't answer, and my throat felt tight as I left her a message with the flight information. She'd be so disappointed when I didn't show up.

When I went downstairs and told Charlie about booking the ticket, his lips pinched heavily to one side so that his mustache appeared to look like an angry caterpillar about to crawl across his cheek and into his ear.

"I would have appreciated it if we could have looked at tickets together," he bristled, his voice gruff.

"Look, I browsed all the major discount ticket sites, and this ticket was definitely the cheapest for such short notice. Under $300. Besides," I smirked, "computers aren't really your friend."

"Well, I didn't want you to pay for the ticket yourself. That's supposed to be my job. You need to save your money for college."

Oh, God, I felt so guilty.

"Tickets go so fast, I didn't want to lose the deal. But you can help me buy my schoolbooks when I get to college. I heard they cost just as much. Besides, you just spent a ton of money on Christmas presents for me."

He paused, looking to the floor and expelling a breath. His arms unfolded. I'd won.

"When does your flight leave?"

"Midnight tomorrow night." His eyes didn't move, but I could see the fight in them. He really didn't want me to leave. I continued, "I'll need to be at the airport by nine tomorrow night. I get in to Minneapolis at five, my flight to Philly is at seven, and then I have a layover the until six. Mom will pick me up in Jacksonville at nine."

'tfuckthisupliarliarliar.

He didn't say anything.

"I'll be really careful, keep my cell phone on, no talking to strangers ... please."

"I guess if you've booked the ticket, then that's that."

I tried not to exhale too loudly. I can't believe he'd bought it. I'm a terrible person. "I'll make sure to stock the fridge, but I probably won't be gone that long."

I didn't know why I said it. Most likely because I wanted it to be true. We were getting better, and this could screw everything up. I planned on being smart about this, but a gut feeling told me there was no way to leave without Charlie getting hurt, no matter what I found once I left. He'd never trust me again.

I hated that it was a chance I had to take.

1. Pack (for as many climates as possible)

2. Mapquest from airport to car place (Taxi? Bus?)

3. Call Mrs. Newton and quit

4. Stock fridge and pantry for Dad

5. Go find Edward

I had twenty-seven hours until my flight left-twenty-four until I had to be at the airport. I wasn't sure there was enough time to get everything done-though I wanted the time to pass much faster than it was likely to-so I started tackling the list immediately.

My luggage set was hardshell in robin's egg blue, with matching blue acrylic handles. It was completely and utterly conspicuous, which is why I normally appreciated it-my mother once waited three days to unpack her suitcase, only to find it wasn't actually hers-only now, the color chagrined me. I felt, insensibly, that I should be more ... covert. I'd only take one of the suitcases. It seemed wise to travel as light as I could ... for not having any clue where I was going.

The good thing about living in Forks was that I was already prepared for cold weather. I packed multiple pairs of leggings, and anything I had that was thermal. I tucked in hiking boots, extra sneakers, a rain poncho, and as many tops and bottoms as I could fit into the small amount of space left, and I had to brace one knee and all my weight on the case to get it to snap closed. All my toiletries went into my backpack, and along with them went everything I'd found under my floorboard. That included the Alice-wallet, though I kept it stuffed in my old purse. I wasn't sure I could handle the sight of electric crocodile for extended periods of time.

Crazy Raymond's was apparently only about ten miles from the airport, and some quick research showed me that I could take the Metro Transit and be there within an hour of my arrival-if the bus ran on time.

I could call Mrs. Newton in the morning to tell her I wasn't coming back. I felt bad for inconveniencing her-she'd been great to me at the store, for what few hours she could give me-but not too bad, because even when Mike and I were the only ones working, we were overstaffed. It would stink not to have a job when I came back, but I couldn't do anything about that.

After I went to the store and picked up groceries for Dad in the morning, that would be it. I'd be ready.

I was sure my stomach was a few inches higher than it had been earlier, and I felt as if someone invisible was pressing their palms against my chest with all their might. After months of certainty about the opposite, I knew I would find him.

What he'd say once I did find him-that was the question to be answered.

Tiredness wound in my throat, until my mouth stretched out in a yawn. Christmas dinner had exhausted me-I shouldn't have had the turkey. I flopped down on my bed, reaching my hand under my pillow to grasp that smooth leather. I unwound the journal's cord carefully and eased it open, thumbing through to find a new page. I had to blink a few times to keep the words from bleeding into one another.

12.17.1936

Desert Places

Robert Frost

Snow falling and night falling fast, oh, fast

In a field I looked into going past,

And the ground almost covered smooth in snow,

But a few weeds and stubble showing last.

The woods around it have it-it is theirs.

All animals are smothered in their lairs.

I am too absent-spirited to count;

The loneliness includes me unawares.

And lonely as it is, that loneliness

Will be more lonely ...

I was in the room again, though things were different. It was brighter this time, most of the light in the room emanating from an uncertain haze above. We were still surrounded with mountains and cliffs of books. The large, low table still stood in the center of the room, but from it grew long, stretching wisps of impossibly green grass that spilled over the edges and ebbed off into the blue of the carpet.

I sat cross-legged in the grass. This time I was clothed, dressed in a gauzy, plain white, scoop-neck nightgown like my mother always wore when I was little. Edward was next to me, and he was naked, knees drawn to his chest, rocking himself. His right hand held my left, and his left hand was spread open a few inches from his face. His lips were pulled into a gentle pout. His hair was mussed, and the copper sheen was subtly muted by what looked like dust.

I swayed my head towards him to encourage him to look at me, but he wouldn't.

"Edward? What is it?"

"I got hurt," he said, his voice on the edge of a whimper. He rotated his wrist to turn his hand toward me. His skin showed a thin, clean slice across the pad of his index finger. A paper-cut.

"It's all right," I said. "You're not bleeding."

"I am bleeding," he corrected me, and fisted his hand against his knee. "It's going too fast. When there's nothing left ..."

His emerald owl eyes stayed trained on his hand. He was afraid.

"Edward," I pressed. "There's no blood. Look." I gestured around us with my hand. His gaze skittered across the grass and back, searching, before hitting my toes, traveling up my nightgown, and reaching my face. When our eyes met, the crease of his eyebrow suddenly smoothed. He brought a cool hand to my face and cupped my cheek. He smiled. I smiled.

His thumb sketched across my cheekbone, and I leaned into his palm. Home.

"Oh," he sighed. "Oh. There it is. I can see it in you. It's here, just under your skin. You're blushing. I can feel it." He exhaled an abrupt, whispering half-laugh. His cheeks pinched up in a smile, and his eyes began to slide closed. Beautiful, beautiful.

Fisting the grass beneath me, I moved to kiss his cheek, and leaned in to smooth my cheek across his. The movement put his lips at the side of my head, and his breath was the cool, loud rush of a river at my ear. A shudder tensed my shoulders and neck as it coursed through me, and my abdomen tightened.

"I was worried," he whispered against me. I could feel his lips pulling up at their corners. "I thought I might become dust."

His legs eased out in front of him, and he gave my arm a slight tug-that was all the invitation I needed to pull up into a kneel and swing a leg over so that I was sitting in his lap, straddling him. Edward's hands ran across my shoulder blades and teased their ways down to the small of my back and back up, as he leaned in to graze his lips along my jaw from one ear to the other, slow, too slow.

My breath expelled in an airy, soprano sigh as his lips moved down my neck. His tongue dipped in at the base of my throat, and Edward moaned quietly as he pulled the skin at the crest of my left collarbone in between his teeth, and ... Oh. I slid up against him, abdomen to abdomen, my chest crushed against him as his head dipped lower to lap at the valley between my breasts, and God, the length of him was pressed against me through my nightgown and it had to come off right that second so that I wouldn't implode from the ache that was maddening me. I lost the nightgown in a frenzy of hands and gasps and swollen lips, and then I crashed at him, pushing him down into the grass and insinuating myself fully, languidly against him, shuddering, shivering, whimpering.

Then time rushed forward into delirious, careening bursts that I could not slow down for all my want:

grasping his shoulders as he slid me up his body to relish my nipples, furiously thirsty for the taste of my skin;

frantically nipping at his neck, pleading in howls as his hand slipped between us to knead me with nimble fingers;

Me, on my back, with the silhouette of Edward surrounding me, my legs wrapped high around his back, arms locked around his neck while he whispered in my ear, "I can see it in you, I can feel it,"-as bursts of brilliant, unknown color exploded in front of me in time with my screams, and I felt the grass wither and crack beneath me.

"No strangers, no sleeping between flights, and keep your cell phone on as much as you can." We were in the drop-off lane. Charlie was pulling my suitcase out of the trunk as I grabbed my backpack from the back seat of the cruiser.

I rolled my eyes, because that's what I'd probably do if I weren't a big fat liar, and I was going for authenticity.

"Don't worry. I've done the whole flying thing before."

"I.D.?"

"Yep." And passport, too.

"Wallet? Ticket confirmation?"

"Yeah."

"Mace?"

"In my suitcase. I'm not allowed to have mace on a plane."

"Call me at each stop and when you get to Jacksonville, too. Call me if your flight is delayed at all."

"Got it." I slung my backpack over my shoulder, hunching forward and looking up at Dad as he slammed the trunk.

"I can walk you in ..."

"Don't worry about it. You need to go home and get some sleep. I'll call you if anything comes up."

He nodded, pursing his lips and fingering the keys in his hand. We stood for a moment, before I closed the distance between us, wrapping my arms around his waist.

"I'll be back soon." Please, please let me come home soon.

"Have fun. Tell your mom and Phil I say hi."

He patted my shoulder and mumbled a goodbye as I hoisted my suitcase up and walked away from him. I didn't turn around. I couldn't turn around.

The airport was swamped-everyone rushing, no one getting anywhere. I stood in line for half an hour, before I was called beyond the ropes to the front counter, and the desk clerk, a lovely, tired woman with a frazzled brown bun, asked what she could do for me. My heart sped up as I explained to her that I wanted to cancel my last two flights, and though she explained that the tickets were non-refundable, she didn't seem to care that I requested it.

You're just paranoid because your conscience is guilty from lying to your parents and breaking your father's heart. No one else cares about your adventure.

Ticket in hand and marching towards the terminal to await my flight, I hoped I was right about that. I was going into this completely blind, with no advantage but the name and address of a used car lot and the color red. Once I got there, there was no way of knowing what would happen-I just had to believe that it would lead to Edward, that I could find him and talk to him, ask him why he left, and why he left these things for me. Pray that I was right about him still loving me, and tell him I'd do anything to be with him.

And hope that I could come home to Charlie and not ruin us forever.


End file.
